


(co·mend·able)

by Theobule (Saathi1013)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Michael Burnham/Ash Tyler mentioned, Minor Character Death, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-05 15:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13390605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Theobule
Summary: Wherein Lorca lifts Michael up, she talks him down, she brings him out, he lets her in.  And there's porn.(Diverges from canon between 1x11 and 1x12; hence the AU tag.)





	(co·mend·able)

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to the airing of 1x12. ~~I fully expect to be Jossed by future episodes (1x12 and beyond), if not within the next twenty hours. That's fine. Everything's fine here. How are you?~~ Holy Hannah, did _this_ fic ever have a quick expiration date. Cool. Cool cool cool.
> 
> (unbeta'd; errors, if pointed out kindly, will be corrected asap)

 

 

Michael remembers Gabriel saying "I don't bow," but here he is, kneeling for her without hesitation, head ducked low so that she can see the back of his neck, the uneven arc of his spine as it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. He is vulnerable, like this, and while she cannot – _will_ not – allow herself to trust him when they are wrapped up and armored in their uniforms elsewhere... when they are in his quarters, alone in the dark, she knows he trusts her utterly, and she cannot help but allow her own wariness to waver.

 _How did we get here?_ she wonders, placing her hand on his head, running her fingers through the short strands, trailing her fingers down to his temple, his cheek, until he lifts his face against her caress and tucks a kiss against her palm like a secret.  The path from _there_ to _here_ is broken, jagged, twisting line, hard to trace.

Perhaps it began in ash.

 

_* * *_

 

The ruins of the palace surround her, secondary explosions rumbling through the ground where Michael sits, crumpled against a broken pillar, somehow still alive after the rebel bombardment.  She can feel the sluggish trickle of blood running down one arm, and her head is swimming from what she assumes is a mild concussion, but she's alive.

"Burnham," comes a distant voice through the ringing in her ears.  "Burnham!"  She turns her head to find Captain Lorca approaching through the smoke and falling debris.  _"Michael!_ "  His face contorts like he's shouting, but she can barely hear him.

"Captain," she says.  "Georgiou is dead."   _Emperor Georgiou_ , she reminds herself, _not Captain Georgiou, not_ my _Georgiou._   Still, this is the second time Michael has had to watch her die.  The Emperor's body is buried under the rubble, and that, too, seems far away.

He nods.  "We need to go.  Ground troops are closing in.  Discovery is waiting."

She shifts, gathering her feet beneath her, pushing up with her hands in the grit and the dust, and her knees collapse.  Perhaps she is more injured than she initially thought.

Lorca crouches low, one knee in the gravel, and lifts her up, his shoulders fitting under her arm.  His face is streaked with grime and with blood.  "Let's go home," he says.  This close, she can read the words on his lips, but his voice is too quiet for her to hear.

"Home," she says, nodding.

He pulls out a communicator.  "Two to beam up," he says, and the palace dissolves around them into light.

 

* * *

 

Michael sits on Gabriel's couch, enjoying the space and the quiet.  The suite is spartan, but there are little touches that speak of its resident.  A weighted blanket draped over the back of a chair.  A small collection of genuine alcohol bottles from various cultures, none less than three-quarters full except the bottle of single-malt whiskey that now sits on the coffee table, careful measures poured into two glasses having been savored over the last half hour. 

A framed slip of fortune-cookie paper hanging on one wall that reads, "Per aspera ad astra."   _Through hardship to the stars._   She can barely see it, in the dim ambiance he favors.  That's all right.  They don't need much light for what they do here.

Gabriel sits on the floor, leaning against her knee, letting her run her fingers through his hair in silence, demanding nothing.  He rarely asks for anything. 

At the beginning, she asked what he wanted from her.  "Use me," he'd said in a raw whisper, and _"own_ me," and she has learned to oblige, on her own terms.

He wanted pain, he wanted penance, but she is not the one to forgive him for his crimes.  Even if she could, she doesn't want that responsibility.  She already has her own transgressions to carry.  When she marks him, with nails or with teeth, it is for her own sake and not for his. 

(Sometimes, it is to anchor herself to the moment, anchor him to his flesh, give expression to the impulse to pull him apart to be sure that he is – and is _only_ – what he seems.)

The memory stirs her.  "Get up," she tells him, tightening her fingers in his hair before releasing.  "Take me to bed."

He rises smoothly to his feet, muscles in his broad shoulders flexing as he braces himself against the coffee table.  Michael is glad she had him take off his shirt; she can see the yellow-green of a fading bruise at the crest of one shoulder-blade and resolves to leave another like it before they are finished tonight.  He offers her his hand and she takes it, allowing him to lead her to the other side of the suite.

"What would you like?" he asks.

"Your mouth," she says, and the corners of his eyes crease in something like a smile.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, his voice a tease, a whisper in the dark.

Perhaps this began in darkness.

 

* * *

 

Lorca has the advantage in the emergency lighting, and he has greater reach and strength should he try to attack her.

But Michael has her phaser, set to stun, and a certain amount of stubbornness.  "Captain Lorca," she says slowly, enunciating clearly, keeping her aim steady.  "You have been affected by the anomaly."

"I'm _fine_ ," he snarls.  "Get _away_ from me."

"Captain Lorca," she says again, then pauses before softening her voice.  _"Gabriel_.  You're on the Discovery.  You're _safe_."

He stares at her, comprehension faintly trickling into his gaze.  "...Michael?"

"Yes," she says, "yes, it's me." 

Whoever he'd been hallucinating in her place, he must have considered them terrifying, because he inhales raggedly and crumples, falling to his knees with one hand braced against the wall and the other covering his eyes.  "I— I thought—"

"I know," she says, taking his forgotten phaser from its holster and gesturing the security team closer.  "It's all right."

He startles when the Andorian reaches out to help him to his feet, and Michael places a steadying hand on Lorca's back.

"It's all right," Michael says again.  "I'm still here.  We're just taking you to sickbay."

If he walks closer to her while continuing to shy away from the security team?  If he leans into the hand she keeps on his arm?  Michael doesn't comment on it.

 

* * *

 

Gabriel undresses her slowly, taking care to press his lips against each expanse of skin he uncovers. 

It is not the ~~terrified~~ respectful dispassion that the other Saru – the last person to disrobe her before Gabriel – displayed when assisting with her morning routine on the Terran Discovery.  It is not the desperate reverence that... _"Tyler_ " used in their few surreptitious encounters.  Sleeping with Gabriel is not like the rushed fumbling of the first boy she slept with (a human ambassador's son) or the brief, entertaining, but ultimately forgettable affairs she conducted on the _Shenzhou_ before her rank became an impediment to further exploration in that arena.

Gabriel is deliberate and assured, attentive to her every shiver and hitched breath.  He drags his open mouth along the line of her neck, her collarbone, over the swell of her breasts and the hollow in between.  He sets his teeth against one nipple, gently worrying until she gasps and pulls him away and up so that she can kiss him deeply, his hands falling to her hips.

"Don't stop," she murmurs against his mouth.

"I don't intend to," he whispers back, a smile in his words and his fingers busy with the waistband of the loose cotton trousers she wears.

(They don't wear their uniforms; it would be too much, a reminder of all the reasons they shouldn't be doing this.)

He strips her bare, sinking down to sit at the edge of the bed while she steps out of the fabric pooled around her feet.

"You're beautiful," he says with unvarnished sincerity, and she feels her cheeks heat.  "C'mere."  And he pulls her in with gentle hands smoothing along the lines of her thighs, bends in to taste the hollow of her bellybutton, ghost his lips over the shallow arc of her belly, nuzzle through the curls between her legs.

She braces herself with her palms against his shoulders and holds on.

Perhaps it began with just a touch.

 

* * *

 

Lorca sits in the prison cell, head bowed, shoulders slumped.  The shimmer of a force-field divides them, so Michael cannot sit on the narrow cot beside him as she wants to, cannot reassure him wordlessly with proximity.

So she speaks: "Commander Saru is appealing to the judicial council now.  Kelpian history is... not dissimilar to that of the Dziban.  He thinks he has a better chance of coming to an understanding regarding your... transgression."

"I heard what you said at my trial," he says, lifting his head to squint at her.  They keep the lights low, here, but there is a lamp behind her and it must hurt him to look at her.  He does nonetheless.  "Thank you."

"I only spoke the truth," she demurs, shifting so that she blocks the lamp.

"Still," he says.  His voice is uneven with dehydration.  There is no guard nearby to ask for water, and she is doubtful they would bother if there were.  "You were... kind in selecting which truths to present.  If I get out of this..."

"Sir," she interrupts, "we _will_ find a way."

 _"If_ I get out of this," he repeats firmly, "I will try to live up to that kindness more often."

"Captain..."

"I'm about to die, Michael.  You can use my name."  He gives a bitter half smile that turns her stomach.

She shakes her head.  "Gabriel _..._ " she tries, and now it is her voice that falters.  If this _is_ the last time they will speak, she ought to impart something of significance.  Thanking him – again – for her second chance seems inadequate.  They have been through so much since that initial interaction...  

Whatever else she is about to say dies on her lips as her communicator chirps.  She pulls it out and flips it open.  "Burnham," she answers.

Saru's voice somes through, tinny but clear.  "I have arranged for Captain Lorca's sentence to be commuted to exile.  He will be released shortly."

"Copy that," Michael says, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders.

And, right on cue, the forcefield shimmers away into the walls.  Michael grins at Lorca, holding out one hand.  "Looks like you've gotten a reprieve, Captain."

"Yes," he says, taking her hand and stiffly getting to his feet.  His thumb runs over her knuckles in an absent caress, sending an unexpected warmth through her chest.

 _He was almost executed_ , she thinks.  _For a simple mistake._   But it is not relief that makes her squeeze his hand in return.

She should let go.  She should call for transport now, before something else happens.  She takes half a step closer instead.

"What I said earlier..." he says, before she can speak.  "You can hold me to that."  There is a trace of his old self in his voice, a careless confidence that belies the sincerity in his gaze.  "Now let's get out of here."  He takes the communicator from her.  "Two to beam up, Discovery."

They are no longer holding hands as they materialize on the transporter pads, but Michael can still feel the pressure of his fingers against her own.

  

* * *

 

They both wind up on the bed eventually, Michael kneeling on the mattress above him, his mouth busy at her cunt.  "That's good," she tells him.  "Right there, there, yes..."  He likes her to be vocal in bed, and she has learned to oblige, though she has trouble with the more colorful vernacular.  Praise she can handle, however, and simple instructions.  "Don't stop, don't, don't— _ah!_ "  Her voice lifts as she crests, grinding down against his tongue to chase the cascade of sensations that follow, finally pulling away when it becomes too much.  She shifts off him, crumpling to one side, her limbs filled with a pleasant lassitude.

Gabriel wipes his face with a corner of the sheet, looking pleased with himself as he hauls himself up to lie beside her.  "All right?" he asks, and she nods, still catching her breath.  He reaches out, trails calloused fingertips down the side of her cheek, along the line of her jaw, then leans in to capture her lips with his own.

Perhaps it began with just this: a kiss.

 

* * *

 

It's late, but Lorca answers his door promptly, clad in a standard-issue short-sleeved shirt and pajama bottoms.

He takes one look at Michael's face and seems to understand.  "Come in," he says, stepping to one side.  She enters, and the door whisks shut behind her.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain," she starts, but he waves her off.

"I can't sleep either," he admits.

Michael blinks, wondering what could be keeping him up.  If anyone has earned rest, these past few days...  "The war is over, in no small part to your actions."

 _"Our_  actions, Michael," he corrects, and she realizes that she is no longer surprised at his use of her given name.  "Yours, mine, the whole crew's.  We all stand to be..." he sighs "...richly _rewarded_ for our efforts."  He settles onto the couch with a frown, then gestures towards the seat next to him.

"You sound disappointed," Michael says as she sits.

He shakes his head, picks up a glass from the side table and angles it, peering at the remains of amber liquid within.  "I don't want to be Admiral," he says.  "They might do it, you know.  Figure I'm less trouble where they can keep an eye on me than behind the helm of a ship that can bridge entire universes."  He takes a sip.  "But I don't want it."  He fixes her with a keen glance.  "What do _you_ want, Michael?  If given the option."

"I..."  Michael finds herself at a loss for words.  She finds it difficult to separate impossibly-wishful thinking ( _I would rejoin Starfleet_ ) from simple optimism.  Neither come as naturally to her as they once did.  "Perhaps there is a civilian scientific institution that will take me," she attempts.

"That's bullshit," he says, gentler than he could but firmer than she expects.  "You belong out here among the stars.  You thrive on it, same as I do."

She looks down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap.  "...there are many respected organizations with field vessels," she points out.

"And how many applicants for jobs on those ships?"  Applicants without her... history, he means, but he's not cruel enough to say it out loud.  Just cruel enough to leave the implication there, like a barb itching beneath her skin.  "And how many of those ships are just following along behind Starfleet, treading the same paths, confirming existing data...  No.  You belong _here_ , on a ship like Discovery."  He drains the glass in his hand and says again, "Same as I do."  Now his gaze is piercing, burning right through her.  "If given the choice, would you stay?"

"...yes," she admits in a whisper.  _There's no place I'd rather be_ , she thinks, but bites her tongue before the words can tumble from it.  She might not ever get her rank back, her old reputation as one of Starfleet's brightest, but the thought that she might be able to keep _this_ , this ship, this crew, this makeshift family...  "In a heartbeat," she adds, with feeling.

He nods, and startles her by rising to his feet, pacing over to one of the cabinets in the wall and withdrawing a bottle with more of that amber liquid inside.  "Drink?" he asks.  "I have French wine, Andorian ale, Saurian brandy... plus anything the replicator can make.  Warm milk helps with sleeplessness, or so I've been told.  But I prefer rye for that."  He gives her a small, conspiratorial smile.  He's not the first captain she's met with a private stash.  Georgiou had favored Denevian mead on special occasions, poured in a precise ratio over three ice cubes.  It had a sweetness that Michael had learned to appreciate.  If Lorca had offered it, she does not know if she would have chosen it, though she now misses the taste.

"Whatever you're having," Michael says absently, glad for the reprieve in the conversation.  She doesn't know why she came here.  She could have gone to one of the unused recreation rooms for meditation, away from Tilly's soft snores.  But she would not have escaped her own tumultuous thoughts, wherever she went.  She needs distraction, and Lorca seems willing to fill the silence.  It is enough, and not enough, all at once.

"This truce with the Klingons will be a chilly one," Lorca comments as he takes out a second glass and pours for them both, "so perhaps I can be forgiven for resenting them."

"For the Buran?"  And the Shenzhou, and the Clarke, and all the other ships whose names she's committed to memory as some small sliver of penance.  There are a great many names.

"Among other things."  He caps the bottle and replaces it, bringing both glasses over and offering her one, which she takes. "Another being that I never got to meet you as an equal."  He shakes his head.  "You'd have made a damn fine Starfleet captain."

Michael swallows hard against the lump that rises in her throat.  Even now, the weight of that lost potential sits like a cold stone in her chest, the way the glass weighs in her hand.  "So I'm told," she manages.

He sits, leaning forward, ensuring eye contact to underscore what he says next.  "I want you to know, I plan to leverage every ounce of goodwill I can muster from the higher-ups for your sake.  For your freedom.  So that you may stay, or leave, at your choosing."

"You don't need to do that, sir."

"Don't call me sir," he says.  "Not now."  His eyes falter.  "And yes, I do."  He speaks of it as a moral imperative.  He seems to have so few of those.  "I brought you here, manipulated you into staying, into working for me, fighting for me, and I used the excuse of the war to do it.  And I can't promise I won't do more of the same, should the need arise in the future.  You should know that, in case this all works out."

Michael waits until he meets her gaze again before answering.  "I do know," she says, her voice clear and cool.  "It was harder to see when it was directed at me, but I watched you with others, and...  I saw it."  Georgiou had always been forthright with her, if sometimes playful in her approach, and the Vulcans that Michael had grown up among eschewed emotional manipulation as crude and inferior to the cooler blade of rationality, so Michael had been unprepared for Lorca's tactics at first... but it was those same experiences that allowed her to analyze his techniques once she realized he was using them.  To his credit – or, more accurately, _dis_ credit – he rarely used it in mixed company, preferring to leverage his skills during private conversations. 

Such as this one.

Michael sets down her untouched drink and straightens her spine.  "...what are you after?" she asks, scrutinizing him closely.

Lorca's shoulders drop, his mouth set in an unhappy line even as he nods.  "I want to know," he starts carefully, "if you were given the choice – the unfettered choice, you understand, free of any obligation or coercion – if you would stay here.  With me.  On the Discovery."

It's the truth, as best she can tell.  "Yes," she says immediately, and it's only when his eyes widen that the implications unpack in her mind.  She realizes what he's been saying this whole time.  "...oh."  His face falls, and she thinks that another person might rush to reassure him, but that has never been her first instinct.  She deliberates her options for a moment instead. "I would... strongly consider it," she tells him.

A spark of amusement lights in his gaze.  "Oh?"  He takes a drink, and she can tell that he's hiding a small, pleased smile against the rim of his glass.

He likes a challenge.

She picks up her own drink and inhales deeply.  Rye, as he'd mentioned.  Probably from Earth or one of its colonies; she couldn't place it closer than that.  "It would... depend on the terms," she says, taking a careful sip, enjoying the warmth in her throat as she adds, _"Gabriel_."

He reaches out for her free hand, turning it over so that her palm faces upwards.  Then he bends and places a kiss there, in the hollow beside the curl of her fingers, his breath ghosting over her wrist.  "Anything," he tells her.  "Any terms you like."

 

* * *

 

"What now?" Gabriel asks, stretched out on the bed beside her.  He is still hard, erection flushed and curved against his belly, but his eyes are on her.  Wanting, but waiting.  She could tell him to take care of it on his own – and has enjoyed the sight of him touching himself, putting on a show while she watched – or she could even walk away.

But they have hours before either of them will be expected anywhere, and she intends to make good use of their time.

Michael considers her options.

 

 

 

 

 

 

— end —

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Five Times fic. I don't know what happened. Bonus points to the first commenter who can guess what was going to happen 5+1 times in this fic tho.


End file.
